


Bittersweet

by VesperNexus



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, The Amazing Spider-Man: Rise of Electro Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:51:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier and The Amazing Spider-Man: Rise of Electro in the description. You have been warned. </p><p>“Peter. Peter Parker.” He looks at him. Peter, he thinks, it fits. </p><p>Steve meets a stranger at the cemetery, standing in front of the graves. He thinks the name is familiar, but doesn't dwell on it, rather it's the loss and grief etched into eyes far too young which captures his attention.</p><p>Or, the one where Captain America meets Spider-Man and only realises it once he saves him from himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, here's another oneshot. If you haven't realised yet, it's a crossover between Spider-Man and the Avengers and was inspired by Rise and Electro and The Winter Soldier, the latest Marvel movies I've seen.
> 
> Also, be warned, spoilers. If you haven't seen either of these movies, I urge you to do so, they are fabulous. Without further ado,
> 
> Enjoy.

**Bittersweet**

It isn’t raining.

The clouds are gathered in a flurry mop of deep grey; dark against the swirling silver of the sky. There’s a constant breeze wafting through the air; ruffling the dying, crisp leaves on thinning trees with fragile branches too weak to survive the harsh coming winter. It’s getting stronger, the wind; whistling far too loudly in an otherwise silent evening. It’s almost eerie, he thinks, the way it carries itself lightly and brushes against his hands, enticing shivers and flushed cheeks.

Steve sighs and takes another look at the skies. The clouds have become darker and the rustling leaves surrounding him have become louder, plucked off the branches one by one. It’s cold and far too earlier to be this dim, and he shoulders his coat closer to himself.

The grave stands before him, marble and shinning and utterly unfazed by the maddeningly freezing weather. He digs his gloved hands deeper into his pockets and his eyes trail over Peggy’s full name, neatly carved into the stone. He scans the script engraved as he’d done countless times before, pausing only to breathe through the chilling pit growing in his chest.

_God, he missed her._

He shuffles closer, feet pressed together and eyes heavy lidded with the pressure of the wind. His head is bowed and he feels a soft familiar prick at the corners of his eyes and wonders why he isn’t used to this yet. It’s been a year, and yet, he can never completely help the feeling of desperation which swells within him everything single time he finds the moment to stand before he final resting place. It’s beautiful, even in a day such as this. Green with flowers that seem almost too murky today, trees which tower to cover shining stone and loving memories.

He’s thinking about her when he hears it.

It’s a soft shuffling, not far beside him. Not like that of the wind, something heavier; something akin to grief being dragged unwillingly through a time which moves far too quickly. He turns his head to his right and lifts it slightly; he had been unaware there was something nearby. He takes the moment to chastise himself for being so inobservant, having missed such a detail- and yet cannot physically bring himself to mind much. When his dark eyes find the source of the noise, his breath hitches slightly.

He’s young. Steve catches a head full of tousled light brown hair and eyes darkened and aged far beyond their years. Hands pressed tightly in pockets like himself, there’s only the slightest reveal of skin too pale on wrists too slim and cheekbones too evident. His- the _boy’s_ (he isn’t by any means old)- raven coat rests over lean shoulders and covers long arms- a darkness similar to the circles beneath his eyes.

Steve holds his breath for a moment. The teenager is clearly in a stage of grief- he remembers himself so well once he’d learned he’d woken seventy years too late- and he understands he shouldn’t intrude. He really, really shouldn’t.

And yet, a strange parental emotion overcomes him, and all he is able to think about is how he should consolidate him and how his wrists should not be nearly as slim as they are. He wonders who the boy has lost- someone far too precious, it seems- and who’s there for him. Steve hopes there is someone there for him.

He’s so lost in thought, he barely notices when the teenager’s head snap up and he’s met with tired, intelligent eyes of someone who’s seen too much for such short years. There’s silence as the boy stares at him and he stares back, neither saying a thing as the wind continues to whistle a bittersweet melody.

He’s certainly taken aback, however, when the teenager smiles.

It’s weak and wavers and very, very weary. It’s the smile of someone who doesn’t quite know how to anymore, the smile of the loved and the lost, the smile of something that’s happened too late. Steve recognises it, recognises it from the photographs and the years he’s spent staring into the mirror and expecting to fall through the hole into wonderland.

He raises a slight eyebrow, and the teenager just shakes his head a little, the smile lessoning ever so slightly. When he speaks, Steve forces his urges to protect the boy- to _shield_ him because he knows he can’t save everyone. There are demons far worse than the ones they battle; demons within the soul, demons within the dead. So he simply listens.

“Sorry,” he hastily apologises, lean fingers abandoning his pocket and running through his ruffled hair. He shakes himself from a stupor as Steve tilts his head, “didn’t mean to stare. Just didn’t think I’d actually _ever_ get to meet Captain America.”

This doesn’t surprise Steve, so much as saddens him. He knows- he can see it in the too weary orbs- that the boy has held him in some regard. A guide perhaps, if it’s evident through the flare that shines regardless of the deadness in those cold eyes. His lips twitch in a small smile, because this isn’t a good day for either of them.

“Not quite what you expected, huh?” His smile widens as he attempts to lighten the situation somehow. He doesn’t think he wants to be a part of this much longer; doesn’t think he wants to see the no-longer existent hope in once lively eyes.

It’s his turn to tilt his head.

“Actually, it’s not that far.” The soft, _understanding_ tone isn’t something Steve expects from the teenager. He replies,

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” The boy smiles a little more, and his eyes shine just that much. Steve feels like it’s a hell of an accomplishment.

The boy nods,

“Yeah. You should. I mean, I’m not even sure what I expected Steve Rogers to do in his spare time. Save some kittens in trees, maybe. I don’t know how I figured you’d be so…” He trails off, and Steve looks at him questioningly; not in a challenge, just with curiosity.

“So…?”

“Human.”

Steve huffs out a short, light laugh and the boy looks mildly embarrassed. He notes the slight flush to his cheeks and thinks it may not all be to the cold weather. He makes sure to maintains his smile, though, when he asks,

“So you know my name. Think it’s only fair to tell me yours.” His tone isn’t heavy or demanding. It’s the voice of someone attempting to bond with a teenager who looks like their entire world has been torn viciously from their grasp that it’s _heartbreaking_.

There’s a moment of silence.  One beat, two beats, three, four… There’s a little bit more eye-contact and it’s like the teenager’s trying to figure out if the conversation is worth the effort; the time he should otherwise be spending grieving. Steve is thankful when he answers.

“Peter. Peter Parker.” He looks at him. Peter, he thinks, it fits.

“Well, Peter, it’s nice to meet you.” Peter’s got something akin to a smile now, and Steve feels just that much better. For some estranged reason, he’s finding it very difficult to ignore the pain and loss in Peter’s eyes, the way his fingers absentmindedly rub against his coat like he’s trying to keep warm but it _just isn’t working._ There’s a tug in his chest and he thinks that maybe this is how Bucky felt when they were younger and he was pulling Steve out of another hell-hole damp and reeking of alcohol. It’s not quite the same, but it’s the only way he can explain these emotions.

“Nice to meet you too, Cap.” There’s a little more to that smile and Steve thinks, in the deep, far away crevices of his mind, that Tony would like this kid. He turns back to the grave, though he makes sure his voice can be heard over the wind when he says,

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

He doesn’t know where it comes from, or what it actually means, and apparently- neither does Peter. He knows there’s surprise in those brown orbs; he knows he doesn’t have to look up to see it. He takes in a little more detail on the grave; the scratches and dents blighting the otherwise unmarred marble. When Peter doesn’t say anything in return, he continues- voice just as soft and laced with what he hopes is understanding.

“I- I think I understand what you’re going through. When I was a kid, my parents…” He trails off, and Peter doesn’t ask him to elaborate. “What I’m trying to say is-” _find your words, Steve_ he faintly hears Tony’s voice in his head, “you shouldn’t dwell. Not on this.” His eyes catch the name etched onto the grave Peter’s hunched in front of. _Gwen Stacy. Why did that sound so familiar?_ “She wouldn’t want you to.”

It’s a bit of a long shot, and for a short while Steve thinks he might have overstepped his boundaries. He doesn’t think he has much of a right telling a stranger how to live their life when he’s barely grasping his. He’s relieved, though, when it becomes evident Peter isn’t offended. The boy takes a moment.

“What if…” There’s uncertainty there, and Steve raises his head again. He tries to convey as much understanding as he possibly could, even though Peter’s eyes are trained on the grave in front of him. “What if it was my fault? What if _I_ did this? How do I get over that?”

Steve is surprised by the admission. More so, he’s surprised (though he probably shouldn’t be) at the grief which fills so quickly through a voice previously empty and perhaps a little light. There’s a weight on Peter’s shoulder’s he isn’t quite sure how to rid himself of yet. He tells him as much.

“Peter-” he does his best to familiarise himself with the young stranger- “this- _grief,_ this _guilt,_ it’s going to weigh you down.” He takes another look at Peggy’s gravestone. “It’s a weight on your shoulders as heavy as the world, and you have to learn to _let it go._ You have to let it go or it will drag you down so far into darkness you won’t be able to find yourself again.” Peter looks up at him, with such a _lost, vulnerable_ look in his eyes it makes Steve’s heart ache. “ _Let the weight go,_ even if it hurts you. This guilt- this _pain;_ you have to stop shouldering so much of it. It _will_ bury you.” Peter swallows almost inaudibly and there’s desperation etched onto his features as deep as the names on the stones.

“Peter,” he says again, as if he’s known the teenager his entire life, “listen to me. I know it sounds _impossible_ right now, trust me I know- but this-if you don’t drop all this guilt and loathing and hate, you’ll never move past it. You’ll never _wake up,_ you’ll never find yourself again.”

“What if I don’t want to find myself?” Peter’s tone is only slightly rhetorical. “What if who I am puts the people I love in danger? What if it’s _better_ for me to just let who I am _go_ , for them?”

Steve thinks this is far too familiar to be comfortable. Bells ring in his mind and he tells them to quiet, because _this is not the same._ Peter isn’t- Peter is _ordinary._ He’s in high school or college and he’s absolutely normal. He isn’t…

And then Steve is looking, _really looking,_ at the eyes he’s seen too many times in front of the mirror, the expression he’s read off Tony and Bruce and Natasha. He’s looking into the eyes of a teenager and finding the emotions of someone who’s been hiding; who’s been hurt and alone and doesn’t know how to deal with all the remorse and pain and anxiety which keeps him awake in the throes of night.

He takes in the dark bruises around the boy’s eyes before he says,

“Who is it _better_ for Peter? Is that how you want to be remembered? Is it how you want your loved ones to-”

“It’s not about what _I_ want!”

Peter’s voice is a little raise, and Steve takes a deep breath to meet’s his eyes. Peter who looks like he hasn’t smiled in months, who’s asking guidance from a stranger because he has no one else, who’s crumbling beneath a weight far too heavy for someone so young to bear alone. So Steve takes a look, takes a look at the boy and helps him with the weight.

“You’re right. You’re right; it isn’t about what you want. But what’s going to happen once you stop? Stop being you? Stop doing all the things you do that _effect_ everyone else?” Peter doesn’t answer, so Steve keeps going. “It isn’t about what you want because it isn’t your _choice._ You have the power to help people, Peter. It’s responsibility to do it.”

Something shines in Peter’s eyes when they meet his again. It’s recognition, familiarity; like this is something he’s heard before. He surveys Steve for a minute and the older man knows the gears in his head are turning frantically because they’re both bordering the edge of something dark and deeper and so much bigger than either of them. He’s finding the hope lingering in Steve’s glances and the understanding swirling in his features, and he’s trying to make sense of it.

“Is that how you do it?” Comes the soft reply, after so long. It hangs in the air like an empty noose between them, swaying with the harshness of the wind. All Steve has to do know is get Peter to step down from the podium before he hangs himself; before he submits himself to a life not of his deserving.

So he answers truthfully.

“Honestly? I don’t know how I did it.” He thinks about the gravestone before him, about Bucky and Howard and his parents, “But I knew I had to.” There’s steel in his gaze, “I knew there were things- things so important, things worth _living_ for…” But before Peter can interrupt he continues, “I know you’ll still be alive, still _there,_ but Peter- if you give this up, you won’t be _living._ ”

There’s silence.

He can feel his heart beating quickly and he faintly wonders how this came to be. How he stood before the life of someone he loved and lost and telling someone who’s world has been ripped from beneath their feet to _let go,_ like he’d been unable to do for so long. He wonders about the grief radiating off Peter, the loss and vulnerability he’s trying to hide behind a mask. About the calls he’ll have to make two, three days from now to make sure the stranger is still _okay._ He doesn’t dwell though.

Suddenly, Peter’s nodding his head. There’s something Steve can’t put a name to laced in his eyes when he says,

“Okay.” And it’s as simple as that.

“Okay?”

Peter’s nodding; cheeks flushed a little more from the cold and skin somehow just a little bit paler.

“I’ll try. I’ll try to _let go._ I don’t know if it’ll be enough, but I’ll try.” Steve nods a little, something light and dark swirling in his chest, dancing circles around his blood in time with the rhythm of his heart. He thinks it might be hope.

“It will be. Trying is always enough.”

And then it’s suddenly over. Peter’s turning back to the grave and silently nodding to himself, and Steve is doing the same, as if the previous conversation had never happened. As if two strangers hadn’t just met, as if Steve hadn’t just said something he hopes the younger man will take to heart.

It’s when Peter’s taking a step back, eyes glazed over a little with something like an incredible sadness radiating from within, does Steve look up. The wind’s lessened, dramatically so, and the leaves no longer rustle loudly as they’re plucked from delicate branches. The sun’s setting somewhere, and it’s casting a soft light, like that at the end of a tunnel. The shadows are crawling back from all the crevices and odd angles they’d hidden in. Steve thinks this might be some sort of metaphor.

He doesn’t think about it though, when Peter finally shuffles back enough and it’s obvious he’s about to walk away- from the quiet, the pain, the loss, the _letting go._ He turns his body completely to Steve and there’s something in the way he stands which gets his attention- head held just a little higher, shoulders just a little straighter. It feels like an accomplishment.

“Thank you.” It’s so quiet Steve wouldn’t have heard it if he had not been who he was, and he thinks Peter knows that. He faintly wonders if there’s some sort of hidden message there when he replies,

“Anytime, Peter, if you want to talk…” He wants to offer his number, an address, _something,_

“I know where to find you.” The smile in his voice, in his eyes, on his lips, surprises Steve pleasantly. He turns back for a minute, analysing those words because- _how_ \- and when he’s turned back to ask, Peter’s gone with naught but the light ruffling of thin branches which hadn’t been moving a second ago.

He takes a moment and considers the footsteps that should have been left in the soil that aren’t there, the mysterious talk of _identity, letting go of who he was,_ and pieces it together when he remembers.

Gwen Stacy, the name etched into the gravestone not far from him. He takes a closer look and beside her there’s another stone, _Captain George Stacy._

He remembers the news; he remembers the cameras two years ago and Captain Stacy _letting Spider-Man go._ He thinks about Gwen and the reporter saying _daughter of Captain George Stacy killed during fight between Spider-Man and the Green Goblin_ , and about the vigilante simply _disappearing_ for months. He thinks about Peter’s admission, about _giving up_ who he was, and suddenly, he’s pieced it all together.

When he looks up again, slightly disbelieving of what had just happened, he takes a look at the sky- the parting clouds, the greyness, the _hope_ that’s suddenly there, and says to the silence he knows Peter can hear-

“Yeah, you do.”


End file.
